What Are You?
by War Journalist
Summary: Frank Castle, the Punisher, has long been a constant piece of New York City. But what is he, really? Is he even real?
1. Chapter 1

The Punisher  
"What Are You?"

Chapter One

It was a cold night in New York City. Just like any other, really. Warmed by sewer steam and houses of ill-repute, lit by soulless neons and fluorescents. Sirens screamed and dogs barked. Stereos blasted and muzzles occasionally flashed.

But the East Docks lay shrouded in darkness, save for the faraway streetlights. The only sounds were the odd seagull, the tinny sounds of the buoys, and the soft seawash against the ancient wooden piers. All was calm. All was quiet.

But somewhere on the South side, a door banged open on one of the lonely dockside warehouses, and an orange glowed flicked to life. Carlo Medici leaned against the side of the warehouse and breathed deep the smoke of his cigarette before quickly expelling it through his nose. He was bored. Flat-out bored. Within seconds, he was joined by John Picardi, coming skidding out of the warehouse brandishing an uzi in one hand. John looked at Carlo and hissed angrily through his teeth. "You wanna keep it the fuck down out here? What if somebody sees us?"

Both men were young, but of medium build. Carlo's hair was a deep brown, and feathered carelessly over a youthful face and wiry features. "So what if somebody sees us? We're guardin' a fuckin' box, for Christ's sake."

John could feel his temper rising, and used one hand to pinch the top of his nose. He was only a few years older than Carlo, with slick black hair and a stronger build. But he was a nervous person, and it showed in lines on his face. His hair was already beginning to recede. He leaned against the side of the warehouse next to his friend, and sighed. "Alright. What's up your ass tonight, eh?"

Carlo stepped angrily away from the wall and kicked away some of the gravel at his feet. "This fuckin' bullshit detail, man! We been part of the family for over a year now, and the Captains still don't give us the good stuff! We get stuck watching their damn crates for 'em."

John waited a moment, lighting his own cigarette. "Ya finished? Ya got any idea whats IN those crates? Eh?" He shot Carlo a knowing look, to which Carlo looked away, sighing defeatedly. "No."

John took a quick drag and held the cigarette between his fingers as he talked. "Well, I happened to have talked to Big Tommy tonight, and he says we're guarding some heavy shit tonight." Carlo stared back challenging. "Oh yeah? What kinda shit?" John ran a hand over the back of his scalp. "Well... ya know... shit. Alright, alright, he didn't tell me anything. But he DID say it was an important job!"

Carlo began to yell, but heard his first syllable echo and quieted himself. "Oh yeah, sure! Every job is an "important-fucking-job." Just like last week when we had to sit in the car and watch that stupid whorehouse all fucking night." Carlo took a quick drag on his cigarette, beginning to pace in front of his friend. "Every little thing matters, like little blocks holdin' up the big blocks. Little things don't get done, and the grander schemes suffer. Yadda-yadda. Bullshit. If they really respected us, they'd be using us for the good stuff. Like guarding Little Johnny or watching the house. Important stuff. But noooooo, we get to spend all week watching a fucking warehouse."

When Carlo had seemingly run out of steam, John spoke again. "Well if the warehouse weren't important, why would anyone be guarding it, huh? For all we know, we might get some action tonight. Ya don't put a turd in a safe, know what I mean? If Tommy put us here to guard something, it must be worth stealing."

Carlo leaned back against the wall with his friend, who was considerably more relaxed. "Oh yeah? And who'd be dumb enough to come on our turf to steal something?" John's cool seemed to turn to a cold shill. "I may have heard Tommy say something about... the Punisher."

Carlo began to hack, having almost choked on his cigarette. When he regained himself, he stared at his friend in disbelief. "The Punisher?" John merely looked at him, calmly taking another drag. "Yep."

After a moment, Carlo replied. "You're full of shit. If the Punisher were anywhere near here, you'd be pissing your pants right now." John sneered. "I AINT full of shit. But yeah, normally you'd be right. I'd be begging you to come back inside and worrying myself stupid. But tonight, I'm not worried." Carlo scrunched his face in confusion. "Why?"

John took one final drag of his cigarette and put it out on the sole of his shoe. "Because what happens, happens. Either he shows up and we die, or he doesn't and we live. No use worrying about it." Carlo crossed his arms and thought, his rage ebbing. "What makes you think we can't blow this guy away? I mean, he's just one guy."

John uttered a nervous laugh. "Oh yeah, sure. The one guy that killed the entire Costa Family. The one guy that single-handedly killed the slave trade in New York. The one guy that's been killing our guys for over twenty years now. Sure, we can take him. You can't kill the Punisher."

Carlo's voice became lower now, almost wary of breaking the perfect silence of the docks that he had so blatantly ignored earlier. "Why do ya say that?" John shot Carlo an even look. "Because you can't kill a guy who's already dead." John could see mild confusion and a hint of disbelief in his friend's eyes. "He's a ghost. The Costas already killed him. But he woke up anyway. Got revenge. He's a restless spirit, is what he is."

Carlo and John both stood silently, staring off into the perfect blackness of the docks. A chill wind swept from the ocean, screaming softly as it played through the rickety warehouse like some macabre instrument.

After a few minutes, Carlo spoke again with renewed clout. "Not that I believe in any of this voodoo bullshit, but how would we kill a ghost?"

For a moment, he wasn't sure John was going to answer. But he did. "Ya gotta settle the spirit to make a ghost pass on. Give them no reason to stay here anymore. Usually its got something to do with the past, or the way they died. Unfinished business. Either that, or salt and burn their remains. But Nicky Cavella, the sick fuck from a few years back, dug up his family's grave and disgraced it. His bones weren't in there. So we couldn't find them if we wanted to. And if it had to do with revenge, he's already killed the Costas, and half the families in the city. He's got his revenge." Carlo tightened his arms around himself to guard against the cold. "So... how much more 'unfinished business' could he have? When's he gonna be... not restless anymore?" Carlo's voice had gone soft now. And John's hard with weariness. "Ahdunno. Maybe never."

The two men sat in silence for the longest time, watching the moon move across the night sky as their only source of light. Their hearts each skipped a beat as the exterior lamp above the door buzzed to life, and their boss Enzo appeared at the door.

"Fucking Jesus, there you are! What the fuck are you doing out here? Get back inside!" Enzo was a tall, lean man. Bald except for a mustache that surrounded his mouth. His eyes were hard, and his face scarred. He was a career soldier.

Carlo spoke up. "Hey boss, what are we guarding?" Enzo sighed in annoyance. "I don't know, because I don't ask. If they wanted us to know, they'd have fucking told us. When people ask stupid questions, they get a bullet for an answer." John merely watched nervously as Carlo pressed on. "But if its something important, we need to be on our toes in case the Punisher shows-"

At the mention of the name, Enzo held up one of his large hands. "Ho-ho-hold up. The Punisher?" He glared at John, who's neck had receded into the collar of his coat. "You been filling his head with that horseshit?" John merely looked at the ground and shuffled nervously, giving no reply.

Enzo stepped out of the door fully, standing in front of his two subordinates. "Alright, I'mma set this straight for the both of you right now. There aint no fucking Punisher." Both men immediately jerked forward, ready to argue otherwise, but Enzo once again held up a shield-like hand. "Shut up and listen. "The Punisher" aint nothing but a bunch of bent cops taking their job too seriously. The higher-ups pick the best guys and send them out like hit-squads to fuck with our business. Why do you think we can never catch or kill the son-of-a-bitch? There aint no one-man-army out there taking the law into his own hands, it's a bunch of trigger-happy flatfoots."

Carlo spoke up. "Then what about the Capos? All the shit he's done and people he's killed." John piped in as well. "The guy's killed over two-thousand people. You can't make those numbers up. Explain that!" Enzo was getting visibly pissed now, and it told in his voice. "No shit! This aint no goddamn pleasure cruise we're running here, dipshits! This is organized crime, not some girlscout operation. Greater risks for greater reward. Some people die, some live, and some go to jail. That's life in the business."

"But if everybody knows this, then why don't they tell us it's a ton of guys instead of just one?" Carlo was nervous to ask any more questions, but curiosity was beginning to keep him warm against the chill harbor wind.

"Because the Capos know that the only way to keep mooks like you in line and on your guard is by giving them a boogie-man to worry about. 'Don't fuck up, or the Punisher'll getcha!' He's a fairytale you idiots. Now get your asses back inside." Reluctantly, and under Enzo's ugly glare, John and Carlo trooped back inside.

As the pair made their way between the high-stacked crates in the dimly-lit warehouse, they said nothing. It was hard for either man to make anything of the night. Carlo's anger over the assignment had been overruled by Enzo's anger, John's creepy theory, and the perfect stillness of the world outside. He felt very little but exhaustion. He just wanted to get some sleep. But for now, the best he could do would be to play a little cards with one of the other guys to pass the time.

But as they approached the area where the tables and chairs had been set up, the lights in the warehouse suddenly went black. There was no flicker or spark as if from a short-out. And no crashing from blown bulbs. The light simply vanished, as if it'd been shut off. He heard the other guys, whine and complain. "What is this, Enzo? Some bogus college 'lights-out' shit? Turn 'em back on so we can see our cards."

Turning to look back for Enzo, Carlo slammed his foot against something and fell hard to the concrete in the dark. Cursing as he felt his foot, he heard a loud crash from above, like glass breaking. He immediately thought of the skylight on the warehouse, but his thoughts were soon drowned out by gunfire. Short bursts from his friends' uzi's.

As he moved to his back and gripped his own 9mm, Carlo could see the faint moonlight coming from the doorway. And in the moonlight, he saw Enzo's shadow. He stood there, writhing, like he was being strangled by some invisible rope. He grasped his neck, even though Carlo couldn't see anything, and reached into the air above him, grabbing something he couldn't see. And the worst part, Enzo, a man who easily weight two-hundred-and-fifty pounds, was practically floating in mid-air. His feet stretched desperately for the ground, but found no purchase. Carlo could only watch as his boss went limp like a ghost in the moonlight.

Carlo was brought back as screaming began to intersperse with the gunfire. Screaming, gagging, and all kinds of sounds Carlo knew human beings weren't supposed to make. Hands shaking too fiercely to pull his gun, Carlo scrambled for the crate a few feet ahead of him. In the glow of the moon from the doorway and the broken skylight, he could see that the top wasn't completely closed.

Shifting the boards just so, Carlo climbed inside the crate, and sat there, thinking. His breath was coming out in harsh gasps, and his leg throbbed painfully. His mind was in a whirl, trying to piece together what was happening, moving the boards of the box back over top of himself. But the first conclusion he came to was that what was happening, had already happened. There were no more gunshots. No screams. Not even the wind moved. Everything was quiet again, except for his breathing. Realizing this, he held a hand to his mouth and tried to slow himself down.

After a moment, he heard something. Footsteps on the concrete of the warehouse. The heavy sound practically echoed. And as he dared peek over the edge of the box, he saw it. He saw Him. A gaunt, pale face beneath the skylight. Slick black hair. Eyes hidden in shadow. Broad shoulders in a black trenchcoat. The lips of which were splayed open wide enough to reveal a stout chest, and a portion of a white skull painted there, almost mirroring the head that stood at least six feet high, overlooking the boxes. Looking for life.

Carlo's eyes were now bulging in his sockets, and sobs began to choke him. He wanted more than anything to look away, but he couldn't. Those black pits where eyes should have been were holding him. Any second, he expected the darkness to open like windows into Hell itself, to swallow him up. He was waiting for the ghost of the Punisher to find him, and kill him.

With a sudden burst of energy, from some primitive survival reflex, Carlo dropped down below the lip of the box and lay at the bottom, holding a hand tightly over his mouth to control how much noise he was making. He slammed his eyes shut and focused entirely on his ears. It took enough effort to hear anything over the sound of his heart beating in his throat, but he could make out the sound of the footsteps as they began again. He quickly found that they were growing louder. Closer.

But as the footsteps drew up next to the crate, a strange resolve had clawed its way up from Carlo's gut. He wasn't going to die. The Punisher WAS one guy. Which meant that he WAS real! What kind of a ghost has footsteps? And if he was real, then he could be killed.

Gripping his pistol in both sweaty hands, Carlo fired blindly into the side of the crate, where he knew the bastard had to be standing. His magazine was quickly emptied, and he could see dim moonlight streaming through the holes he had made. A sort of crazed grin stretched across his face. He must have done it! He must have hit him, he must have!

But before he could lift himself out of the box, the lid was torn off from above him. And there, standing over him, was the gaunt pale face, with eyes as black as pure darkness. He felt his eyes nearly bug out of his skull, and his heart slam against the inside of his chest. His arms went numb, and his breath seemed heavy in his lungs. He couldn't breathe! He couldn't move! And his chest felt like it was being crushed!

As Carlo Medici's world went black, his only thoughts were a horrible tempest of fear and doubt. And a certain surety that the world itself was not going dark. But rather, he was being pulled into those black eyes. Those black, ghostly eyes of Death itself.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"Cock-sucking mother-fucking son of a bitch!" Anthony Marcone slammed his fist into the red-patterned wall of his comfortable office. It was on the 25th floor, overlooking New York. It was a room clearly designed to be as comfortable and impressive as possible. The furnishings were all quality mahogany, the computer on the desk was the most-advanced on the market, the floors were a lush deep-green carpet. The walls were lined with copies of famous paintings, with a massive bookcase/wine cabinet against one wall, and a black leather couch against the other. The ceiling was high, with an ornate wood-and-gold fan. The wall behind the desk was made entirely of high-test safety-glass; designed to stop anything short of tank shells.

Marcone himself was a scarce man. The wiry frame beneath the red dress shirt and the quickly-balding head made him seem almost skeletal. His knuckles had begun to bruise from use, and as he removed them from the wall, he slid an immaculate pair of wire-rim glass back up his nose. Between the office and the man who resided in it, it would be difficult to realize that said office was the center of one of the largest local drug rings in the city.

Marcone stepped back over to his desk, and planted his hands on either side of the speakerphone near the center. He raised a hand to his septum and squeezed, to clear his head. "And there's no way we can keep a lid on this? We can't just let it burn?"

On the other end of the call was Anthony's second-in-command, "Big" Tommy Leone. He was an imposing man in-person, but in reality he was fairly simple-minded. He was a thug that had managed to climb his way into a leadership position. Anthony both respected and detested him, with the occasional twinge of fear, which is why he preferred to speak over the phone. However, that fear was the furthest thing from Anthony's mind as Tommy responded. "No, it was a pedestrian call. We didn't learn about it until the trucks started rolling. We don't have a man in that fire station."

With a measure of restraint, Anthony resisted throwing his desk lamp across the room. "Well, we need to GET one! We practically run the Southern docks, we ought to keep tabs on the fire station that protects those docks, don'tcha think?!" Anthony kicked one of his guest chairs in frustration, letting the pain in his leg calm him down. "Alright, alright, I'll make sure the next guy that gets in is on payolla. So whadda ya want me to do?"

"Get a squad down there to check the place out, BEFORE the fire department shows up. That's the whole months fucking product, and the whole payment to to Drakavski's. See what they can save, and make sure the rest burns." Tommy stuttered. Anthony hated stuttering. In fact, he was fairly annoyed with most verbal imperfections. "I already had guys down there, but I'll send another one."

Anthony's eyes flew open. "What? Then how the FUCK did the fire start?! Are they fucking incompetent?!"

Tommy's voice took on a pout of innocence. "I sent Enzo Farelli's squad down there. They're usually pretty good, but I aint been able to get through to them for a while now." Tommy's vernacular was quickly wearing away at Anthony's patience, and it took a fair bit of rational thought for him not to strangle and rip the speakerphone from the wall jack. "Well if they aren't dead already, they WILL be soon. Get Alonso's squad off their ass and down there, pronto!" He didn't bother waiting for a reply before smashing his hand down on the End Call button. It had been a very trying day, and the warehouse fire was simply the next in a long list of fouled-up ventures.

As he allowed his rage to cool, and his head to clear, the further-reaching effects of the fire began to strike him. Without that money, he wouldn't be able to keep the Russians from taking back the docks. And without that product, his other business partners would tear him apart. Anthony was one of the last Capos of the old-regime of organized crime in New York. He and maybe half a dozen others had taken control when the old heads were killed years ago by the Punisher. And as much as he didn't want to believe or accept it, it seemed as though it was all happening again. There didn't seem to be any other rational explanation.

And it was all because of that man. That one man. The Punisher. It couldn't have been Anthony's fault. He'd taken every precaution he could have. Everything had been nice, neat, and orderly. And then along comes this old soldier with a skull on his shirt. Like a bull in a China shop, he ruined everything. An animal in a system of businessmen. That's really all it was. Castle was nothing but an animal, driven by his primeval urges to kill anyone or anything he didn't like. He had no sense of dignity, no sense of posterity or civility. Anthony did his business in a civilized manner. Always code, always protocol; as little mess physically or metaphorically as possible. He had single-handedly taken the drug trade to a higher level of organized crime, and he was very proud of that fact. But all his work had been wasted on this animal. This old-world brute who still solved his problems with a bullet.

Anthony sat down in his reclining chair behind his desk and stared out of his window, thinking. What _were_ his problems?! Whatever they were, he knew they could be resolved somehow. Probably much more easily than he had been led to believe. He wanted them to stop selling to kids? Done. No more vendors within ten blocks of a school. Exercise more discretion? No problem. Castle could have just put the word out for a meet; a nice discussion on maybe some of the finer points. Everyone could have easily come to an agreement.

Anthony threw the glass ashtray he had been examining from his desk into the window. Neither broke, but both suffered minute cracks. But no! He had to be a fucking animal about it. Just guns down two-thousand people because he's got a fucking god-complex!

He released a heavy sigh and once again pinched his septum. Calm down, Anthony. No point in crying over spilled milk. What happened, happened. And everything that could be being done about the situation, is being done. Relax.

He reached down and retrieved the ashtray, placing it back on his desk where it had always been. He considered reaching into his bottom drawer for a cigarette, but thought better of it. Worry and cancer had killed his father, and he wasn't about to see the same fate. Instead, he stood up and walked across the office to his liquor cabinet. A few drinks just to calm him down. There would no-doubt be things he'd have to answer for tonight, and he wanted to be sober enough to do poured himself a tumbler of bourbon with a generous helping of ice.

As he sipped his drink, staring at the painting over the cabinet, he heard a knock from his door. "Who is it?" he asked, unconcerned. "It's Johnny, sir. Big Tommy sent me and a few other guys to keep an eye on ya." Something about the voice sounded familiar. It was deep. And tired. He walked back behind his desk and set the bourbon down, sliding the shotgun from the secret slide beneath the desktop. "Johnny who? Who's your Captain?"

Anthony waited precisely two seconds before taking vague aim and pulling the trigger. The heavy buckshot splintered the door, leaving a good fist-sized holed just above and to the right of the handle. He knew it. Not only would Tommy not have the forethought to send a team to guard him, he knew every man in his outfit. This was no soldier, this was an experienced killer. He could tell just from the voice. "You can't fool me, Castle, you motherfucker. If you want me, you're gonna have to come in and get me!"

But even as he finished his challenge, he saw a small dark object enter the room from through the hole. He ducked instinctively, and heard the device bounce off of the bulletproof glass window. He was about to scream a retort when the small device clattered to the ground near his desk. He managed to recognize it as a grenade just as it exploded.

Even behind his wire frames, his eyes burned and screamed in his head. It had been a flash grenade, and his world had gone white. His hands instinctively reached to cover his face, and he fumbled with the shotgun before dropping it. Desperately he reached out to regain it, but tumbled to the floor. The pain tearing through his optic nerve had ruined his sense of balance. He clawed across the floor, searching for the familiar cold steal. He heard the light creak of the door being pushed open, and launched himself clumsily toward the noise, hoping to grapple the bastard. As he made contact, he reached with his teeth for a grip. He connected, and tasted worn leather, biting with every ounce of strength he could muster. He curled his hands into claws and searched for something to rip. Get him bleeding!

He felt warm flesh rip beneath his nails, and dug in. Castle growled with the pain and grabbed the back of Anthony's neck. Within a few seconds, he had managed to pry him off, but not without Anthony taking something with him. Dirty bastard! Attacking him without cause, and under a bad lie! He didn't even have enough honor to challenge him openly.

Anthony was tossed backward, and connected painfully with his bookshelf. Remembering the bottle of bourbon he had left out, he reached for it and slashed it in front of his face to fend Castle off. His eyes still burned, but his vision was clearing. He could make out a blurred outline of the bastard; the skull showing in the blob. "Come on you lousy fuck! You wanna fight like savages, huh? Come on!"

Anthony heard another growl, followed by a quick click and pop of a pistol. He began to fall even before he felt the pain in his kneecap. The bastard had shot him! He wouldn't even fight hand-to-hand! He was fucking scared! Lousy no-good trash! Lousy honor-less son-of-a-whore! At this point Anthony could no longer distinguish his thoughts from his words. His vision once again blurred with the incredible pain flashing up his leg, He could feel bits of bone digging their paths through his skin, as well as his own warm blood flowing over his leg, soaking his pants.

He felt a hand grip his collar and drag him across the floor. He reached up to claw at the appendage, and realized he had dropped the bottle. His fingernails found no grip in the leather. "Get up, Marcone. I don't have all night for your games." Castle slammed him against the front of his desk, dragging him up and over to lay on the desktop. He kicked with his good leg, trying not to think about the pain as his other leg dangled awkwardly over the edge. He could feel the muscle and sinew tearing. "You're gonna help me send a message tonight." Anthony gritted his teeth and spit in the direction of Castle's voice. "No matter what you do to me, you won't scare me! And you won't scare my friends, either you ratfuck!"

Finally his vision was beginning to clear, and he watched as Castle picked the bottle of bourbon from the ground. He unscrewed the top, and tipped the bottle over on him. "Have a drink on me." Anthony struggled to keep the liquid out of his mouth and nose, coughing and gagging. "What the fuck are you doing?!" he managed to cough out. He heard the thud as the empty bottle hit the floor, followed by another click. Was he going to shoot him again?

"I'm lighting a fire under the mob's ass. Starting with you." Too late, Anthony cleared his eyes enough to see the little flame of a butane lighter. "You sick fuck! I'll kill you, I swear I'll kill you you fucking animal! I'll rip your fucking heart- AAAAAAHHHHH!" Anthony's stream of curses was cut short by a horrible howl of pain exploding from his lungs. The fire had quickly spread over his liquor-stained body, cooking him in his clothes. He felt every individual surface of his body heat and burn as quickly as the flame covered them. The pain was unbearable, and all he could do was scream.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A lonely alley in a lonely city. The city that never sleeps, they say. And they're right. Officer Joshua Park hadn't slept in approximately 20 hours. He knew this because checking his watch was the only thing to do. This late at night in the business district, anyway. All day; muggings, break-ins. Even a murder. It almost made him sick, how far down the tube society had gone. Nobody really gave it much thought these days. And even if they did, it wasn't as if it affected their personal lives. Until they were victimized, that is. And even then, they shrug it off within a year or so. Because it's all just too horrible to think about. It's too depressing to live your life with the reality that around every corner, there was a fifty-fifty chance you could lose everything at the hand of a fellow citizen.

Park wasn't a cynical old man. He was, in fact, a rookie cop fresh from the academy. And he didn't consider himself cynical. He was a realist. At least, he was now. When he had joined, he had hoped to somehow make a difference in the city. But the "filing" process, as his partner called it, had quickly taken away any notions of that. You know those scenes in old cop movies where one cop says to the other "this is my beat?" It was a lot like that. You stuck to the neighborhood they assign to you. Only in emergencies were you called in to assist. And working the business district was, by-and-large, boring as Hell.

But he'd been awake for so long because a gunfight had broken out in his apartment complex. A cop is a cop, even when he's sleeping. He'd called for back-up, cuffed the guys, and... well, what was the point in going back to bed?

At the moment, Park was sitting in his cruiser with his partner, Sergeant Robin Stevens. He was a chubby guy, and an old-fashioned one at that. Hell, he practically WAS one of those old black-and-white cops. Good is good, bad is bad. No room for the grey area, which had been the subject of the evening.

"There aint no two-ways about it, kid. Frank Castle is a maniac. Maybe he was a good man once, but he's no hero. Not anymore." Despite his girth, Stevens, tightened his crossed arms to help from the cold. "Okay, I'll admit he's killed a lot of people-" "Over _two-thousand_ people" Stevens interjected. Park continued regardless. "Right, but they were all scumbags! Every one of them! Felons, murderers, rapists, drug-dealers, pimps, and just plain criminals! Two-thousand is a big number, but does it really count for as much when none of them deserved to live anyway?"

At that, Stevens pulled the small silver crucifix from beneath his jacket, and held it in front of him. "Only God decides who deserves to live or die." His cold blue eyes stared into Park's fresh brown ones, with a sense of serious dominance. "Maybe. But God made The Punisher, didn't he?" It wasn't a question. And as much as that seemed to end the argument, Park felt a twinge of guilt. They pair fell silent, listening to the hum of their squad cars heater and the occasional police-band static.

After a while, Stevens pulled his cup of java from the cup-holder and began to sip at it. "The bottom line is that he breaks the law, Josh. Maybe he does take out those low-lifes, but he does it by his own rules. And they aint the right ones. America was founded on the ideal that everyone deserves a fair trial being judged by their peers. Frank Castle takes that right away from his victims."

Park reached for his own cup (actually hot chocolate) and retorted calmly. "I wish I could believe the country was still that pure, Robin. But the fact is that the law these days can be bought. Cops bent, juries bought, and freedoms abused. That Lorenzo guy they busted for pimping? This is the third time he's been brought in, and the third time he's been released. On that fucking camera technicality." "Watch your language" Stevens interrupted lowly.

Park continued, staring out into the street. "I just think that The Punisher is modern justice for a modern world. Yeah, he doesn't work by a code, really. No rules to speak of. But he deals with those sons-of-bitches that we can't. And I mean, aren't we supposed to enforce the law, prevent crime, and protect people? It seems all we do these days are pick up the broken pieces. I heard that back when that Cavella guy dug up Castle's family," Park noticed Stevens cross himself out of the corner of this eye. "... and he went on that club-assault, crime just dropped. Just dropped. When we get better equipment, beef up our patrols, the crooks just get heavier and smarter. When The Punisher steps up to the plate, everyone backs off. I won't go saying he's a hero, but he's no villain." Park drained the last of his hot cocoa bitterly.

"If he brought them in gagged-and-bound with evidence, then he'd be a tolerable hero, son. But he breaks the law. Plain and simple. He murders people. And that makes him no better than any other murderer." Stevens looked over at Park, concernedly. "And it's a sad, sad world that needs to admire such a man." Park stared back, helpless and pensive. "You'll get no argument there."

The radio screeched at the pair. "Unit 264, calling 264." Stevens grabbed the mic and answered. "This is 264, go ahead." The semi-attractive voice of the woman manning dispatch replied dispassionately. "Reports of shots fired in the Fourkes Building, as well as a fire. We've got a truck headed that way, please respond." Parks buckled up and put the little black-and-white into gear as Stevens responded and grabbed his own belt. "Roger that." The pair pulled out into moderate late-night traffic, siren blaring and lights flashing. Another wail in the sleepless city.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Dr. Arnold Ellinger sat wearily at his desk. His rounded chin sat atop his crossed arms, balancing a pair of square, wire-rim glasses on his nose. His half-dead, deep brown eyes watched the smoke rising from his cigarette. Twisting and swaying as it rose to the ceiling of his dreary office. In a strange way, it was the most lively thing in the room, he thought. He would have laughed, had it not said so much about his office, and himself. His computer was dirty and aging. Otherwise, his desk was only populated by two mugs and a downturned picture. The first mug, at his left, held his pens and pencils. Most of the pencils were green, with dried out erasers, and many of the pens were those cheap blue things with questionable ink life. The picture, just behind the writing utensils, was of his wife and son. Clara and Jordan. He didn't like thinking about them while he was at work. Which was strange. One would think that keeping loved ones in mind would help with a stressful job. On the other hand, it only enhances any guilt you may feel.

Arnold was a surgeon. He used to be a good one. Top five in his graduating class. His diploma had once hung proudly on the wall behind him. He'd started up his own private practice on the East side. Manhattan, New York City. He'd anticipated good business, and he had been right. About the business part, at least. Arnold was no stranger to violence. He had seen the results of some action during time in Operation: Desert Storm. And New York City held its fair share of crime. But as the months rolled by, Arnold noticed that more and more of his patients wore greasy suits, and traveled in groups. But the Hippocratic oath never distinguished friend from foe. He'd never asked any questions, and kept his eyes down when possible. Organized crime was a reality one had to be accustomed to in today's world.

He'd been able to stay neutral until one night. It was a late one, and his secretary Jean had gone home. He was just locking up when someone tried to bash in his door. They did so, and a hail of gunfire followed. The men that had helped themselves to his hospitality were being pursued by a gang of rival killers. Hitmen, mobsters, gangbangers; he didn't know or care. But in that situation his first instinct was to get low and call for help. He reached the office phone and called the police.

The gunfight lasted only minutes. With his guests coming out on the losing side. Afterward, the attackers came in to examine their handiwork. When they saw the phone in Arnold's hand and heard the distant wail of the siren, they left a lead souvenir in his thigh and made quick their escape. The police arrived just in time to clean up.

After that, Arnold's ordinary clientele dried up. All but the suits in a stream only just steady enough to let him keep the office. He had been made to let Jean go. He wouldn't put her at risk. And in an attempt to save himself more grief, he removed his diploma from the wall, and usually kept his family hidden. But two months prior to this night, his wife had decided she had had enough of the late nights and the secrets. He understood, and knew it would be best for Jordan, who was only eleven. But understanding rarely creates as much comfort as you would think.

Now Arnold sat in his chair, a week's worth of stubble on his face and a half-finished pack of cigarettes in his pocket. The walls were all a sickly egg white that had begun to dull. He leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, which occupied the second mug on his desk. The one thing he could pride himself on these days was his ability to make a damn good cup of coffee. But with no one to share it with, it was a hollow victory. The office was quietly. So uneasily so, that even his groan as he rubbed his tired forehead was comforting. But as he placed his coffee mug on back on the desk, he heard a knock at his door.

Half of him wanted to shout "I'm closed," and reap the consequences that would transpire. But the other half, the half that had kept him from shaving his neck with a scalpel these past two months, made him get up. He rubbed the bald spot that encompassed the top of his head, and exited the little office. Stepping out into the patient waiting room, he could hear the faint scream of sirens. An intermingling of police and firefighter sirens. The knock came again. But as he approached his door, Arnold's analytical mind flickered. The knock was a slow, methodical one. It spoke of patience and calm but firm intent. Normally his customers didn't bother to knock at all.

He opened the door and came face-to-face with a six foot man that looked like a modern, living version of Frankenstein's monster. Dead black eyes beneath equally-dark hair. A stark grimace seemed etched into his face, and a large leather jacket shrouded his massive form. "You open?" came the deepest, harshest, most calculating voice he had ever heard. But even so, he heard the twinge of Italian. He exhaled slowly and stepped aside, allowing the large man to enter. When it was only he that came in, he closed the door behind him. "No back-up tonight?" Arnold said half-heartedly.

The man shot him a cold glare over his shoulder, before shedding the jacket. "I don't have back-up." As he saw the jacket drop, he noticed that the man also carried a duffel bag. Boy, those brought him back. Must be an ex-marine working as a gun-for-hire, he thought. The man wore a black t-shirt beneath the jacket, and his musculature certainly indicated someone with a dedication to physical fitness. The skin was aged and marked with strain, but the muscle beneath was powerful nonetheless. It was a nice change from all the overweight, under-muscled goons he usually treated.

With a rub of his eyes, Arthur led the man back into the room beside his office that served as the operating room. This room was slightly better-kept, but the air of hopelessness permeated it regardless. The tools sat orderly on the right wall, while the table sat in the middle of the room. Portions of the comfort padding had been ripped, torn, and stained with blood that Arnold had not the money, nor the will, to repair. He turned his back and prepared a set of gloves as the man climbed on to the table, which released a slight squeak with the wait. "What'll it be this time?" he said as he turned around.

"A few deep scratches on my left shoulder, buckshot in the right. One bullet in my right thigh; moderate bleeding. Think you can handle that?" The voice was no less cold, hard, and calculating. When he had turned around, the man had stripped his shirt off and laid flat. The dark, steely eyes stared at the ceiling. He expected to be treated, but managed to keep out any sense of demand. He had decided to be cordial. Well, at least it wouldn't be so bad.

Arnold took a moment to examine him. The man had spoken the truth. Everything was where he had pointed out. But the wounds dated back to what he estimated to be close to two hours old. "Taking chances tonight, eh friend? You might have come to me sooner." He snapped on his gloves and readied the syringe of morphine. "I had work to do." He turned back around to face the man, moving the operating lights into position. "Oh yes, you're work is always so important to you boys." The man looked at him coldly, his mouth tightening up.

After a silent moment wherein Arnold gave his best returned glare of weariness and resilience, the man asked "what's in the needle?" He sighed and replied "anesthetic." The man reached down to his side for the duffel bag and pulled a small pistol from it. "Look, if you don't want it, just say so. No need to threaten me." Frustrated, he replaced the needle with the other instruments. "I wasn't." With a quick motion, the man removed a single bullet from the clip and replaced the gun in the bag, placing the bullet between his teeth. "Get on with it." With yet another sigh, Arnold got to work on the man.

First came the scratches on his left shoulder. These looked to be the freshest wounds, and were bleeding the most profusely. It looked like the man had been mauled by a dog or something. He had always been good with sutures, and this would stop the bleeding and keep the man from going into shock from blood loss. It was done within moments. Thankfully the brute wasn't squirmy. Next, he focused on the single bullet in the man's thigh. Thankfully it was the outer thigh. The man had managed to bandage it up fairly well for a thug. The bleeding had almost completely stopped. And strangely, the man made no noise or movements as he unwrapped the tourniquet. He could tell that the flesh was tender, but even so. The man had quite a lot of self-control.

A further examination of the man that he subconsciously compiled while working, revealed that he was quite up there in years. The stress lines, breathing, skin coloration and texture, and the slight natural movements of the body indicated that the man was probably in his late fifties, if not pushing sixty. And Arnold could not help but silently marvel at the man's physicality. Such a good body wasted on such a harmful vocation. It was a pity.

The bullet thankfully came out cleanly, with only two fragments. No serious injury. He cleaned and wrapped it up good and tight. Finally, he looked at the buckshot wounds in the right shoulder. This would be the most difficult and tedious. His only solace was in the fact that it wasn't birdshot. Buckshot was small enough to elude all but the most practiced hands, and birdshot was even smaller. Anyone who came to him with birdshot was given a pain prescription and nothing else.

After the fifth little ball had come out, Arnold's fingers began to ache. Working around muscle, tissue and bone this high up on the shoulder was delicate work. But the only sound the man made was a low grunt when he had been forced to scrape a tendon in removing a pair of balls. He was once again forced to admire the man's tolerance for pain. He was practically a machine.

When the operation had been completed at last, the man's shoulder looked like a sponge. But he managed to soak up most of the blood and bandage everything accordingly. The instant his gloves were off and his hands washed, he lit up a cigarette. The man spat his bullet, almost entirely bitten through, into the pain containing the other bits of bloody metal. He lifted himself mechanically off the table and replaced his shirt while Arnold's back was turned, placing his instruments into sterile, hot water. "What do I owe you?" came the hard voice. Arnold almost laughed. None of the thugs had ever actually paid him. The higher-ups only funneled enough cash into his account to keep the clinic open and his bills paid. "That's funny champ. But I-" Arnold's words caught on the inside of his throat as he once again faced the man, this time with a view of the front of his shirt. Painted in stark white across the chest was a craven-looking skull. And suddenly it hit him.

Frank Castle, aka The Punisher. The man who had been slowly eradicating every mob outfit in New York over the past few decades. At first he stood in shock, but that quickly gave way to fear. What would the suits do to him if they found him here? He doubted very highly that they would sympathize with the Hippocratic oath. "No charge, just hurry out. They'll kill me if they find you here." He genuinely hated to be rude. He appreciated what the man did. But the Punisher's presence was simply detrimental to his health. Castle hefted the bag on to the operating table and replaced his jacket wordlessly. As he opened the door, he said "They won't be back. And hopefully neither will you. Thanks for the sutures." And with that, the door closed and the man disappeared into the blackness.

Arnold stood there, slack-jawed for a moment, until the cigarette between his fingers burned him. He dropped it into the trash and thought over the events, ensuring himself that they had actually occurred. He leaned wearily against the wall and slid into his operating chair, exhaling softly. As he rubbed his eyes, he noticed that the duffel bag was still on the operating table. His first instinct was a bomb. The Punisher did kill people for a living, after all. To him, he was probably just another enemy. But his curiosity claimed victory, and he unzipped the bag. What was inside made him rub his tired eyes even more vigorously. Money. Hundreds. Probably thousands. Enough to get him out of here. Maybe there was a soul in that killing machine he had just treated.

Arnold's thoughts drifted back to the picture on his desk...


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

How had that song gone? "The whole of the world is a great black pit, filled with people who are filled with shit..." At the moment, Archibald Hicks wholly agreed with what he could recall of the song. He staggered through the cold alleyway, muddling through the miasma of trash and trying not to wretch at the heady smell of waste, sewer steam, and dead things. He had dug through enough dumpsters to know the unnatural order of things. Dead fish in the trash bags, dead rats attracted by the smell, dead cats who had eaten the rats and died from the cold or disease at the very top.

But at the very bottom, beneath the fish? Dead men.

It was all so ridiculously Shakespearean! Murders, betrayals, executions... he supposed it was poetic justice. Staring up at the dark sky from betwixt so many immense structures, it was almost comical that we all ended up on the bottom anyway. Archibald took a swig of the whiskey he'd bought with his panhandling money. One may ask why he wouldn't simply buy food? Or a wash? Or clean clothes? In truth, panhandling was not a living. It took a lightning-bolt of destiny to bring a man back from rock-bottom. But while you're there, you may as well enjoy it. So the question becomes why _not _inebriate himself? After all isn't everyone, poor or rich, merely stumbling through life like he through this trash to an uncertain end? Are we not merely suffering through every waking minute merely to get a glimpse of some possible happy moments? And are not these moments, like the stage's limelight, only so brief, so transitory, it's almost as if they never existed? Someone once said "happiness is fleeting." Meanwhile the first Buddha said "All life is suffering." The truth of it all.

As he turned a corner, his knee crashed into a nearby trashcan and he clenched his fingers around the bony appendage, nearly dropping his whiskey. As he settled against a wall, hissing in pain, he almost began to laugh at the sheer tragedy that had been his life. Ten years ago he had graduated with a degree in the Arts, and moved across the country performing plays and musicals from "Hamlet" to "Sweeney Todd," and from "Les Miserables" to "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." Five years ago he had become a moderately-successful writer, having sold a few plays from his apartment. Two years ago he had broken his hand during a nasty fall through a manhole (for which he had never been compensated) and had considerably limited his writing. Last year he had lost his apartment along with all of his worldly possessions. It was a slippery slope. "I am not bother-ed" he recited after his chuckling had died down.

As he dropped the bottle from his lips after another gulp, he heard the sharp crash of glass on concrete. His half-drunken eyes flashed open and he looked down at his own bottle. Thank Heavens. It was still intact. But now he was keenly aware of the source of the crash: around the corner, several men were congregating.

"Jesus Christ, you wanna ring the goddamn doorbell Andy?" This one was gruff, but worried. As a veteran actor, he could tell instantly about people. "Aw, Christ, why did you make us drive all the way out here? That stupid fucking alarm goes off twice a week for the maid service, and half the time he forgets it's even on and trips it himself." Andy carried the bottle's confidence. "We know that, but it's an alarm for a reason, man. This is what we get paid for. Let's hope it _is_ just the maid." A noble guard-dog, this third one. Ah, Benvolio.

While the actual contents of the conversation had no real significance to him, his mind snapped into shape as he heard the unmistakeable slide-click of a pistol being cocked. In that instant, everything seemed important. How far away were they? Did they intend to come closer? What did these hoodlums want? What alarm, and who was this boss of theirs?

Archibald took another look skyward, and glimpsed the edge of a sign painted on the alley wall, just above the dumpster: "Fourkes Building Waste ONLY. Violators will be prosecuted." Oh my. He had stumbled into the seedier section of the "financial district." Perhaps the drink had not served him quite so well on this night. Even so, he still had half the bottle to spare. Gathering every ounce of stealth, grace, and strength he could muster with his wounded knee, he attempted to sneak back the direction he had come, around the corner and back to the safety of the dumpsters and the already-dead. He promptly crashed into the same trash can, knocking it over and noisily spilling the contents all over the alley and himself. And to make matters worse, his bottle had shattered on impact with the hard earth. Oh Hell.

The three thugs came streaming around the corner like vultures circling their prey. Andy, Benvolio, and the first to speak whom he had subconsciously dubbed Moe. The impact of his head on the pavement had sent him spinning, and their questioning screeches of protest came off as simply that. However his eyesight had not been quite so impaired, and the metallic sheen of the handguns shone brightly. Archibald could only fall on instinct, which was to say "I'm leaving" weakly, and attempt to crawl away. His speech came out garbled, and his crawling was especially painful on his bruised knees.

The three stooges began to jab and kick at him, forcing him on to his back before crunching him up against the wall of the alley. After their moment of triumph, and realization that he was not their intended target, the group turned away from him. Each bone in his body took its turn screaming and burning in pain. So much so that he could have certainly imagined the light creak and clink of the fire escape above him, followed by a falling, black star.

As his vision began to clear, he realized that it was not a star at all, but rather a bag of some sort. It landed on top of Moe, who manged to catch it and briefly wonder about its origin. However another object came falling out of the night. This time a creature. Perhaps a stone gargoyle or some immense black panther. The creature landed crushingly on Moe, and proceeded to attack Benvolio and Andy. The metallic flashed again, but this time was outmatched. The two thugs fell almost instantaneously with two twin flashes and cracks of gunfire.

The creature, still indistinguishable to Archibald's recovering senses, rose to its feet with its back to him. It was enormous, clad in a black leather jacket. A large revolver shone in the moonlight briefly as it returned to the jacket from whence it had come, and it rubbed its shoulder. It was more of a cursory check, an assessment, than a gesture made from pain. Surely this creature could feel no pain, or remorse, having so swiftly and deftly upstaged the other three men.

Moe groaned, somehow still alive. The man-beast turned slightly, allowing Archibald to see a glimpse of its face: wrinkled and scarred like a predator that had survived to old age. "Tyger, tyger, burning bright..." his mind recited.

With single, simple motion, the man- it must be be a man, he thought- lifted his boot high and crushed Moe's throat beneath it. Moe twitched grotesquely a moment, and lay still. Exit, stage left. The man lifted his large black bag from Moe's corpse and slung it over his shoulder. He turned as he did so, noticing Archibald out of the corner of his eye. He stared, still hungry.

Archibald realized how loudly he had been breathing and slowly crab-walked to the wall of the alley. He put on his best face and spoke, as he had trained so hard to, without fear. "Don't mind me. Just a common bum passing through. I taste terrible." He whispered the last part.

The man turned away again, hefting the black bag over its shoulder and walking calmly into the dark of the alley, opposite the way Archibald had come.

It was like living in the wild, he thought. But the concrete around him quickly changed his theory. No, it was more like a zoo. Living like animals in a zoo. But thinking back to the way the man-creature had simply faded away into the murk, his mind changed again. Not a zoo, but an aquarium, and we are all the fish. The barracuda are fierce and powerful, preying on the little fish. Until they meet the Great White.

Archibald Hicks, now sobered by fear an exhilaration, scrambled to his feet and began weaving back the way he had come. Or rather, any way other than the way the predators had come and gone. The song had come to him, and he sang quietly under his breath, lest he bring the great fish back. "The whole of the world is a great black pit, filled with people who are filled with shit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it... But not for long..."


End file.
